


Love is (Not) A Chemical Defect

by Nostra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, BBC, Drunklock, Fluff, Gay Sex, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Smut, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, new genre: fluffy smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:31:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nostra/pseuds/Nostra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may seem like a mistake at first, especially to the average individual – the way the beakers have disappeared and they collapse onto opposite chairs, Sherlock staring into John’s slurring eyes and John into Sherlock’s murky ones, the way John lets his body sag into the armchair, sleepily slipping from the cushion and brushing Sherlock’s thigh on accident, the way his touch sends shivers through Sherlock’s whole body like a tremor, a quake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is (Not) A Chemical Defect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moriartywasafake](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=moriartywasafake).



> My first Johnlock fic! This was written for moriartywasafake, based on the prompt: "love is (not) a chemical defect, listening to heartbeats" for the johnlockchallenges’ gift exchange!

Sherlock imagines that John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to him, but the truth is, the chemistry is incredibly simple.

It may seem like a mistake at first, especially to the average individual – the way the beakers have disappeared and they collapse onto opposite chairs, Sherlock staring into John’s slurring eyes and John into Sherlock’s murky ones, the way John lets his body sag into the armchair, sleepily slipping from the cushion and brushing Sherlock’s thigh on accident, the way his touch sends shivers through Sherlock’s whole body like a tremor, a quake. 

But the universe is rarely so lazy. The taller man’s dark and scanning eyes do not easily miss the equivalent exchange of alcohol for bravery and unbuttoned shirts. Maybe it is John’s stag night but Sherlock can’t help but be a little bit selfish, never claiming to endure discomfort for morality’s sake. His blood alcohol level may as well be broadcasted across John’s chest like text on a black bar, the way it screams to Sherlock through John’s blushed cheeks and even droopier eyes, and Sherlock can’t help but to take a drink from John’s lips.

Because really, it’s science. There’s chemistry there, between the two of them, and Sherlock can calculate the elements it takes, the endorphins rushing under the skin like blood flushing under the cheeks, pounding in the ears. He can evaluate and measure the reactions – when he licks John’s earlobe he shudders, or when he runs his fingers through John’s hair and against his scalp it makes John tense every muscle, or when he plants a soft bite to John’s neck it produces an interesting clenching throughout John’s body. Sherlock gauges all of these reactions, pre-programmed and helpless to ignore them.

He’s practically edible, Sherlock nibbling at John’s thigh as he whimpers and tries to adjust underneath of him with an uncomfortable erection, perhaps trying for friction. Sherlock is certain that John is ridiculously and painfully horny when he flips Sherlock underneath of him, using his naturally broad frame and ingrained military training, wielding it like a weapon against Sherlock’s weak spot, like his Achilles’ heel: Sentiment, though he’d never admit it, claiming that love was a dangerous disadvantage. Sherlock didn’t want John to stop.

John’s takes the lead, smiling on top of him darkly, lifting Sherlock’s chin and running his tongue up the whole length – and synapses fire like tiny explosions in Sherlock’s mind, right behind his eyes until he’s seeing white. It’s a conglomeration of skin, rubbing like creating a fire in the middle of the night, like creating a safe space in the wilderness. Sherlock is happy for the escape from the mind, happy to take the science of the body. Anatomy, as they say.

John lowers himself onto Sherlock with encapsulating need and little preparation – Sherlock screams, he thinks, because it just feels so intense, so good, the way John gasps on top of him, his muscles swallowing Sherlock whole and in one bite. Sherlock’s eyes loll, he thinks and thinks but it’s a repetitive thought like a heartbeat, a thump, thump, thump, echoing in his head like a scream in a dark hallway, building and building and building as John finally takes him in just the same way he’d always imagined through his carefully pragmatic observations. 

They collapse because their bodies, no matter how much Sherlock wishes, are done, exhausted, chemically unable to continue any longer. The brain continues, because that’s what the brain does, but Sherlock tries to zero in on their breaths and how they begin to steady from panting to a regular pace, focuses on the look of peace on John’s face, listening to heartbeats.

Sherlock, with John breathing softly on top of his chest, thinks this: love, no matter what Sherlock says outside of this safe space, is not a chemical defect.


End file.
